


All I've Learned

by uwhatson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's journey through faith and doubt during Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I've Learned

**Author's Note:**

> For Alex H.
> 
> This work is paired with a fanmix which can be downloaded [here](https://mega.co.nz/#!RwllDbAI!arvCx3-XvGuTNXRDffwWHWYdL8FXvRjk5J4oSAGN0-4). I apologize for any errors regarding languages, locations or cultures. I spent many an hour on Google trying to make up for my lack of knowledge of the Greek language or Varanasi's architecture, but there are still a lot of places I could've gotten it wrong. If you'd like to tell me about any mistakes, please do! I would appreciate it immensely.

**01\. Intro – The Hush Sound**

_There are children whirling, laughing_  
 _They don't know they should be scared_  
 _Give me that hope_  
 _Give me time to love_

Castiel begins his search. Dean’s amulet is a heavy weight in his hand, held tight as he flickers his way across the globe, a different place every minute, second, moment, with all of time and space spinning around him.

He is the only constant in a whirling storm of chaos. He hears the bare fragments of words, sees brief glimpses of a thousand different scenes, catches traces of scents that disappear into another instant.

He does not tire. He knows his road will be long, and that it may be many miles before he reaches its end.

The amulet remains cold, even grasped between his fingers, its only warmth coming from his own vessel’s skin.

Through the shifting maelstrom, he catches the sound of a child’s voice crying out and stops instantly, although, if asked, he would be unable to answer why.

The street is narrow and dusty, but its walls are covered in bright colors, as if painted in every shade imaginable. The paint is cracked and chipping, but the colors remain strong, undiluted by the baking sun.

He hears the child scream again, and spins around, only to see two young girls running down the street toward him, laughing shrilly with excitement. The older girl is chasing the younger, who is far in the lead but clearly tiring. As the younger reaches the place where Castiel is standing, she darts behind him and then freezes, pulling out his coat to hide herself. As he looks down at her, she places a finger to her lips and grins.

Her triumph is short-lived, however, as the older girl suddenly arrives, grabbing hold of the younger girl’s arm and pulling her away from Castiel’s shelter.

“No te puedes esconder!” the elder shouts, causing the younger to promptly burst into helpless giggles. Soon the elder is towing the younger down the street, away from Castiel who still stands in the very same place that he arrived. The younger girl does not look back, her hiding place quickly forgotten.

Castiel watches them leave, still unsure as to why he stopped in the first place, the dust settling on his vessel’s skin. Then, in the blink of an eye, he moves on.

Castiel does not weary. But the amulet remains cold.

**02\. Strangers – The Kinks**

_In a promised lie you made us believe_  
 _For many men there is so much grief_  
 _And my mind is proud but it aches with rage_  
 _And if I live too long I'm afraid I'll die_

God exists. Otherwise, how could Castiel be alive? The angels have no mercy; he was destroyed utterly, he is certain of that.

If his Father saved him, it was for a purpose. God is not merciful, even less so than His angels, His very first creations. And if God did not save him out mercy, then there must be a reason Castiel is still in existence, still a sentient being, still _alive_.

He finds himself on the steps of a long-abandoned church with the rain pouring down. He knows there is a village just beyond the field of banana trees behind him, but there is no one here to bear witness as his feet sink into the red mud. The mountains rise up around him, hazy as they disappear into the cloud cover, and Castiel can feel the rain against his vessel’s skin, to be dried with a thought as soon as he moves on.

The church’s walls were painted with whitewash years before, but no one has taken the time to repaint it since. The fact that the church is still standing at all is surprising. Miraculous, perhaps.

Castiel knows what’s inside. He doesn’t have to look to know how many skeletons are strewn across the floor, torn apart by machetes and riddled with bullets.

But he stands in the doorway and looks into the shadows as the rain drips down his trenchcoat and falls onto the dusty floor.

**03\. God? – The Dodos**

_You pit us up on different sides_  
 _I know, I know, that's just your will_  
…  
 _We did the things you said, alright_  
 _Oh no, oh no, oh God, where'd you go?_

Castiel is confused when Dean tells him that he and Sam have split up; “taking separate vacations,” to be precise.

It’s true that Castiel has never been particularly fond of Sam, especially given that he is what Castiel would diplomatically call an abomination, but there is something distinctly disconcerting about Dean without his brother beside him.

The road is dark and wet with rain, but Dean hardly seems to notice, the highway signs flying past at well over the speed limit. Castiel sits in the passenger seat and stares at the raindrops on the windshield. He does not speak.

_Didn’t you hear? He’s dead, Castiel._

The wind is howling and thunder crashes in the distance, the occasional flare of lightning preceding it. Castiel hears only the words of his brother and he does not know what to do with them.

“Man, you okay?”

_Dead._

Castiel doesn’t answer, but Dean continues anyway, speaking of absent fathers and searching sons who cannot find them.

“So who cares what some ninja turtle says, Cas. What do you believe?”

_God?_

Raphael had said their Father’s name as if he hardly recognized it. But how could he not? He is God, the Creator. There is nothing in the world that does not speak to His presence. How could anyone doubt His existence?

“I believe he’s out there,” Castiel says.

“Good. Then go find him.”

Castiel turns his head to study Dean, this latest commandment taking him by surprise. Dean is alone, and while Castiel is unfamiliar with loneliness, emotions stronger than approval and disapproval being strictly human in nature, he assumes that it is something Dean would like to end as soon as possible, rather than perpetuate. There is little camaraderie to be had between a celestial being and a human, but even Castiel can recognize laughter as being a sign of happiness. Castiel may be a poor replacement for Dean’s brother, but—

“What about you?”

Dean and Sam. Sam and Dean. Never one without the other. But now Lucifer has risen, and perhaps—

“About me? I don’t know. Honestly, I’m good. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but I am. I’m _really_ good.”

Castiel remembers the companionship of his own siblings, and though it was a far cry from the Winchesters’ bond, he can only think of his own words to Dean as he asked him for aid.

_I need your help, because you are the only one who will help me._

Castiel looks out the window at the rain that splatters across it, running back in rivulets until it reaches the sides, where it flies off into the night once more.

“Even without your brother?” Castiel asks.

“Especially without my brother,” Dean says, and smiles.

**04\. The Easter Parade – Emmy the Great**

_And underneath your pastures green_  
 _There’s earth and there’s ash_  
 _And there’s bone_  
 _And there are things that disappear into it_  
 _And then they are gone_  
…  
 _Gloria in excelsis_  
 _Deo, deo_

Castiel nearly stumbles—nearly—as he comes into being in the cemetery of a small church, perched on a hillside facing the sea. He can hear the crash and roar of the Mediterranean, grasping at the edges of this tiny island off the coast, too small to even have a name.

Some years before—a decade? a century? surely not a millennium—Castiel had possessed a vessel from this small island, a brown-haired girl who trembled as she prayed and wept to hear his Father’s word. She had answered his call in the cemetery, standing at the graves of her parents, her feet bare and black with dirt. He had promised her salvation and she had opened her arms in joy and unhesitating faith.

He left her, shattered and raving, by the side of the road under the relentless blaze of the sun. Her place in Heaven was ensured and would come soon enough, for her trembling body was far from any town or even water. Her soul would be delivered unto salvation and she had served his Father well.

Castiel hardly recognizes the cemetery now, overgrown with weeds, the grave markers barely visible. The church is before him, now little more than a pile of weather-worn stones, the roof having collapsed long ago. The wind is strong and rushes around him, causing his coat to billow and the tall grass to brush his fingertips.

_Καστιλ!_

Castiel lifts his head, startled, even though he knows the voice is simply a recreation by his own mind, a memory hitherto unremembered.

_Καστιλ!_

This time he shudders, and then wonders why, why he should flinch from a memory of which he has no shame. But the girl’s voice keeps screaming, even as he screws his eyes shut and covers his ears.

_Βοήθεια, Καστιλ! Κύριε έλέησον! Παρακαλώ, παρακαλώ— Καστιλ, βοηθήσετε!_

“Σταματήστε!” Castiel pleads. “Παρακαλώ, σταματήστε!”

But there is no respite, and now he recalls what he had forgotten—the girl’s leg broken with the bone piercing through, three fingers missing from her left hand, the skin of her face torn away to reveal the red muscle beneath—all the cost of battle and deemed unworthy of his attention now that the vessel had served its purpose.

She had been in agony and he had left her to die, a faithful servant of the Lord abandoned without a thought of mercy.

 _Mercy_. Such a human concept. Angels had no need for mercy, for unnecessary benevolence that served no purpose. Human suffering was temporary and fleeting, and it was no angel’s task to cut it short. Such things were not Heaven’s concern and never had been.

Still fighting to shut out the girl’s deafening screams, Castiel finds that he has dropped to his knees, bent in supplication to the words of a mere recollection. Without opening his eyes, he stretches out his consciousness, reaching toward another place, another language, one that does not beg him for the relief which he can no longer give.

He opens his eyes to find himself kneeling on the paved streets of Hong Kong. He rises, jostled by the rush of people on every side, dwarfed by the skyscrapers towering above him. The noise is overwhelming—chattering voices, honking cars, shouting vendors—and Castiel lets it in, gladly.

**05\. Repo Man – Jeremy Messersmith**

_Fourteen years I was sober_  
 _And I worked hard for my pain_  
 _I left my tithe at the altar_  
 _And closed my eyes when I prayed_

_But I’m the repo man and nobody, nobody_  
 _Nobody weeps for me_

Castiel does not stay with Sam and Dean once he transports them to Bobby’s. Placing his fingers to their foreheads, he had felt their grief. There was no question as to what had occurred while Lucifer held him in the circle, unable to leave, unable to help. But there was nothing for him to say, and so he said nothing at all, and there was nothing for him to do, and so he left, closing his eyes and reaching toward the first place that came to mind.

He opens his eyes to find himself face to face with an angel, immediately staggering backward before realizing the blank eyes staring into his own belong to a cold marble statue. Its white wings are outstretched and its arms are reaching towards him in a gesture of compassion, but its face holds no expression, perfect and completely devoid of all emotion.

Its absolute lack of expression is the only reason Castiel ever thought it might be real in the first place.

He turns to see the rest of his surroundings—it has been years, centuries since he visited this place, after all—but finds the rest of the church relatively unchanged with the passing of time. Gray dawn light is filtering through the rose window above the church’s doors, but the church itself is empty, his footsteps sounding loudly in the still air as he walks toward the entrance.

The doors are locked from the outside, so Castiel transports himself to the other side with hardly a thought.

Unexpectedly, he drops two feet and tumbles gracelessly down the stairs on the other side, stairs which he does not remember being there despite their well-worn steps, now an inch from his own face.

Castiel rises to his feet, briefly gasping as bruised muscles make themselves known, but a moment’s concentration and the pain is gone; he is whole once more.

The square is empty at this hour but Castiel continues toward it down the stairs, finding his way barred by a set of metal rails. Ducking beneath them, he turns to look back and sees that the outside of the church is covered in scaffolding, the metal, wood and plastic all marring its white stone exterior, elaborately decorated with the sculptures of angels and saints alike. The metal rails that had blocked his way are a barrier to prevent anyone from coming near, and the reason is made clear from a sign hung upon them, which reads, “Pericolo: Caduta Angeli.” Thoughtfully, someone has provided a rough English translation for any tourists—“Danger: Angels Dropping.”

And now Castiel pauses, because there is something pathetically coincidental about all of this, and if he were Dean Winchester, he would be laughing and likely wishing he had something to drink on hand. Because he is himself, Castiel does nothing but reach out to trace the words of the sign with his fingers, spelling them out as Lucifer’s voice resurfaces in his mind to remind him again—

_What a peculiar thing you are._

And Castiel knows that this is true. He is peculiar. He is odd, unusual, one of a kind.

And he is utterly, undeniably alone.

**06\. Heroes – Caught In Motion**

_Only words and teachings remain_  
 _When my heroes die_

Castiel has returned to his search, leaving Sam and Dean to decide the next plan of action against Lucifer. He begins again, the amulet clutched in his hand as he travels, the chaos spinning him in its midst once more.

But as the days pass, turning into weeks as deserts and jungles, cities and plains fly past, Castiel begins to feel something strange, a new sensation tugging at his being. Something is wrong, but Castiel pushes it aside, continuing onward in the spin of sights and sounds, gripping the amulet so tight it cuts into his palm, distracting him with its pain. But soon even that is not enough, and so he begins to recite what supposed word of his Father he can remember, the human scripture more of a distraction than any real source of strength.

_He will not let you fall; your protector is always awake. The Lord will protect you from all danger, he will keep you safe._

It is only when he suddenly finds himself staggering forward and collapsing onto the curb of a dark street in a small German town that he recognizes what this sensation is.

_Weariness._

And now he realizes that he yearns for rest, his vessel’s muscles crying out for respite and his mind feeling as though it is slipping from his control. He stares unseeing at the all-night grocery store across the street, the only source of light in a dark city. Moving now seems impossible, and Castiel can only gaze at the blinking neon light in the shop window, too tired to even bother deciphering its letters.

_Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God._

Which one was that? Jeremiah? Ezekiel—no, Isaiah. Most angels had never bothered with the Bible, but Castiel had found it easier to convince his vessels to allow him entry if he knew what they believed angels and God to be. Most of it had been gibberish, more a historical record than a holy book, but certain phrases had remained with him. Before, they had often given him some pathetic sense of comfort, but now they seemed to just be even more empty words and promises, spoken by humans long ago to give themselves a flickering flame of hope in darkness.

“Sir, geht’s dir gut?”

In his daze, Castiel hadn’t noticed the ring of the grocery’s bell, nor the approaching footsteps across the pavement, but now the shopkeeper is standing in front of him, a worried expression on his face. The man’s accent is strange, and Castiel realizes that the shopkeeper is not German but from somewhere else entirely. Turkey, perhaps, or Iran. But since he can’t be sure, Castiel replies in German as well, saying, “Mir geht—mir geht es gut,” and wondering why he seems unable to draw enough air into his lungs, no matter how many breaths he takes.

The shopkeeper does not seem convinced, however, and offers him a hand. Castiel shakes his head, unable to face the prospect of standing.

“Bitte,” the man says, and Castiel can see genuine concern on his face, the bushy gray eyebrows knitting together. “Drinnen ist es wärmer.”

But Castiel cannot move and merely shakes his head once more. After a moment, the man drops his hand and sighs, returning to his shop with brisk strides.

_I will not leave you nor forsake you._

The winter air is bitter cold, and this is just one more sign that something is going terribly wrong, as for Castiel the weather is usually an ignorable detail, rather than a significant concern. He clenches his teeth together and buries his hands in his coat pockets.

_If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him._

Castiel does not know how much time has passed before the shopkeeper is back again, holding blankets and a cup of something steaming. The man places the cup on the pavement and lays a blanket over Castiel’s shoulders, then sits beside him, shaking out his own blanket, one which looks much more threadbare than Castiel’s own.

_But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind._

They sit in silence for some time. Eventually, Castiel tries the still-steaming cup. It is filled with very strong coffee and, despite its bitter taste, Castiel appreciates the warmth with which it fills him. The shopkeeper does not speak the entire time, to all appearances entirely unfazed by the appearance of a nearly catatonic man outside his late-night grocery.

_I will both lie down in peace and sleep, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety._

Castiel can feel control returning to his vessel’s muscles, order returning to his own mind. Tentatively, he reaches out towards the numbness in his toes and—gone. He checks over his vessel slowly, restoring it to its normal state of function, and eventually all is once more in order.

Shrugging the blanket from his shoulders and onto the sidewalk, Castiel turns to the shopkeeper.

“Danke für Ihre Hilfe.”

The man starts and then stares in confusion as Castiel rises to his feet, walking away and down the street, beyond the reach of the lights from the grocery.

_Come to Me, all of you who are tired from carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest._

Castiel reaches out into the darkness, and in an instant, he is gone, chasing after a name which shifts and wavers in his mind like a dying echo in a cave.

**07\. Big Red Machine – Bon Iver**

_‘Cause all I've learned is to suffer_

When Castiel wakes, he is lying on top of a cheap motel bed, its garish orange comforter pressed up against his cheek. With great effort, he pushes himself up and tries to focus on the rest of the room.

“Look who’s awake! Mr. Comatose himself.”

Dean’s voice seems unnecessarily loud, and Castiel resists the urge to press his hands over his ears in self-defense.

“How long have I been… out?” Castiel manages to say, squinting against the light of the wall lamps.

“A few days,” Dean says, and now his quip makes some sense—one of the few that do. “Here, have some water.”

A glass is shoved into his hand and Castiel swallows some of its stale and lukewarm contents.

“I am sorry I was not there for you and your brother, Dean,” Castiel says eventually. He can see himself in the mirror on the other side of the room and he realizes that he looks terrible, his vessel’s face drawn and white, his eyes sunken and shadowed.

“Considering you almost killed yourself getting us there in the first place, I think we’ll let this one slide.”

Dean is leaning against the television with a beer in hand, watching him closely, as if Castiel might keel over at any second. In all honesty, Castiel must admit, such an occurrence is not out of the question.

If he thought he was weakened before, it was nothing to how he feels now. The room spins every time he turns his head, causing his stomach to clench unpleasantly and gray spots to appear across his vision. He wonders if any other angel has ever felt this terrible and eventually decides that the answer is probably no.

He can feel the humanity creeping into him day by day, and his only wish is that he could stop it.

“Seriously, man, you okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel realizes he has been sitting motionless on the bed for what is probably a very long time.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and winces as a fresh rush of pain floods into his skull. “But perhaps—I should lie down.” With that, he allows himself to collapse onto the bed once more.

“…Team Free Will, man,” he hears Dean mutter, just one more comment to make Castiel pause and wonder what on earth Dean Winchester is talking about, but instead he closes his eyes to be swallowed in empty blackness where he need not search for answers because here there are none to be found.

**08\. Down To The River To Pray – Alison Krauss**

_As I went down in the river to pray_  
 _Studying about that good old way_  
 _And who shall wear the robe and crown?_  
 _Good Lord, show me the way_

Castiel lands with an unexpected splash and suddenly there is water filling his nose and mouth, a clear sign that he has once again miscalculated his location of arrival. After a brief struggle, he breaks back through the water’s surface. The air is warm, despite it still being winter, and the sun is shining brightly as he wades to the river’s bank, coughing the water from his vessel’s lungs.

He receives curious looks as he climbs up the steps of the ghat, but he doubts he’s the first unusual foreigner they’ve ever seen, judging from the numerous tourists he can spot at a glance. Sure enough, the turned heads quickly turn back, attending to more important things than a strange foreign man, soaking wet and ill-dressed for the weather.

Castiel sits down on a step and pulls the amulet, with some difficulty, from his pocket. The wet fabric puts up quite a fight, but once he has it in his hand, the answer is the same as always.

The sun really is quite warm, and Castiel knows that he not only must rest briefly before continuing onward, but that he also has no strength to spare on “holy drycleaning,” as Dean calls it. So he shrugs off the coat, laying it out on the steps beside him, and slips off his shoes, dumping the water out of them and then pulling off his water-logged socks. The tie goes as well, as does the belt, but Castiel leaves it at that, reluctant to draw any more unnecessary attention his way.

Down at the river’s edge, a group of women are standing up to their waists, their brightly colored sari trailing behind them in the water. Their hands are clasped together in prayer and Castiel finds himself wondering what they are praying for.

He closes his eyes and listens. The riverside is a loud place, full of people shouting and singing and laughing, but beneath it all he thinks he can hear the low hum of the women’s voices, chanting, “सीताराम सीताराम जय सीताराम,” over and over again as the cloudy water flows around them.

And Castiel wishes he did not understand their words, because then he would not wish that he could understand their meaning.

**09\. Wayfaring Stranger – Anonymous 4**

_I am a poor wayfaring stranger_  
 _While journeying through this world of woe_  
 _Yet there's no sickness, toil nor danger_  
 _In that bright land to which I go_

The winter wind sweeps across the scrubby grassland, sending Castiel’s coat flapping out behind him as he looks up at the cold blue wall of the mountains rising steeply upwards. There is no one in sight and the only sound is the wind’s howl as it sings across the lifeless prairie.

He is momentarily overwhelmed—or rather, his _vessel_ is momentarily overwhelmed—by the twisting sick feeling he has learned to call nausea, a combination of the effort now required by his travel and the several pounds of red meat he recently consumed. For a second, Castiel believes he has regained control, and then an unbidden remembrance of the taste of raw bovine flesh on his tongue sends him back toward and toppling over the edge, causing him to vomit for the first time in his millennia of existence.

The experience is not pleasant, and certainly not something Castiel ever wishes to repeat. He feels better afterward, however, wishing only for a means of washing the taste of bile and half-digested food from his mouth. He makes do with spitting repeatedly and is briefly grateful that there is no one else here to witness this sight.

Finally, Castiel rises to his feet and once more turns his face upward, examining the snowy peaks before him. It will be many minutes yet before he can move on, and—yes. The amulet is as cold as ever. He begins to walk.

He remembers a time when he would wait for hours on end without complaint, utterly devoid of restlessness in a way that would be alien to Dean Winchester or even probably his brother. But now something itches in him at the pointlessness of standing in one place for no reason, desirous of activity at the very least, if not action. Undoubtedly this is yet another new and very human emotion and as he walks across the frozen plain Castiel adds it to a list of every single other unwanted feeling he has encountered since dragging Dean Winchester back from Hell.

 _Boredom_ , to start with.

 _Guilt_ in not revealing to Dean the plans of Heaven sooner.

 _Anger_ , still remembered in the burn of barely controlled rage at Dean’s failure to stop his brother, unlike any inclination to discontent Castiel had previously experienced.

 _Helplessness_ as he lay motionless on a motel bed in 1978, not knowing where Dean and Sam were, not knowing whether or not Anna had killed them both, unable to move, too tired to even open his eyes.

 _Desire._ Castiel winces as the recent memory surfaces, his insides twisting once more with nausea, but he swallows and waits for it to pass, keeping his eyes on the mountains ahead of him.

_Doubt._

What had he told Dean Winchester?

_I’m not a… hammer, as you say. I have questions._

The winter sky stretches out above him, a brilliant clear blue. There are no birds flying in the empty expanse, and not even a cloud to break the view.

_I have doubts._

And that had been a year—no, more than a year ago now. Back when he had still been a faithful servant of Heaven, full of righteousness and holy truth, not the ragged wanderer he has become.

“I have doubts,” Castiel breathes, remembering the look on Dean’s face as he had said it, but now his words are swallowed by the wind, torn away to whisper their way through the mountain peaks, up where the land meets the sky.

**10\. Lux Aurumque – Polyphony & Stephen Layton**

_Pura_ / Pure  
 _Pura velut aurum_ / Pure as if gold  
 _Canunt et canunt et canunt_ / They sing and sing and sing

“What the—turn that off, man.”

Sam had been flipping through the channels while Dean was out getting dinner, and had finally settled on the broadcast of a church mass, probably because the only other four channels were all showing infomercials and Spanish soap operas.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know, everything?” Dean dropped the paper bag he was holding onto the small table. “By the way, Cas, I would’ve gotten you something, but given that you never seem to eat except when a Horseman’s nearby, I thought I’d save myself the four bucks.”

“Thank you for the thought, Dean,” Castiel says from the chair in the corner where he has been sitting silently for the past 34 minutes. “And how can ‘everything’ be wrong with Sam’s choice of program? It seems relatively inoffensive as a documentation of a human ritual.”

“…do you seriously expect me to listen to a Palm Sunday mass while I’m eating my Chinese takeout?”

“I don’t know. What is Palm Sunday?”

At this, both Sam and Dean look at him incredulously, but after Castiel merely stares back, Sam is the one to finally explain.

“It’s a feast day in the Christian Church celebrating the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, coming one week before Easter. So, today, basically.”

When Sam and Dean continue staring at him for a few more seconds, Castiel realizes that some response is expected on his part. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. This is a very important day for you?”

And with that, Dean just sighs and shakes his head even as Sam splutters and looks at his brother in askance.

“Give it up, Sammy. If the angel doesn’t know every holiday on the Christian calendar, so be it.”

“But—he’s—an—angel!” Sam hisses, every word slow and deliberate, as if Dean is missing the entire point.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean he has to give a rat’s ass about Jesus, now, does it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—” Castiel begins to say, but Dean waves him into silence.

“Talk theology some other day. Right now, I’m going to eat some chow mein, and neither of you is going to stop me with the discussion of religion of any kind.”

Sam sighs, but says nothing more, and the two brothers busy themselves with opening boxes and unwrapping chopsticks. Castiel turns his attention to the run-down television, held together in places by duct tape. The people on the screen are singing now, holding candles before them. The candlelight’s glow is warm and soft, shimmering even through the grainy picture projected onto the dusty screen. The singers’ voices are raised in harmonic supplication and for a moment— _credo in unum Deum_ —he feels as if their song is filling him up where every passing month has drained him— _Patrem omnipotentem_ —he feels as if their light— _factorem cœli et terrae_ —he feels— _visibilium omnium et invisibilium_ —something new he does not yet have the word for, but—

“Seriously, Sam, turn it off.”

Sam slaps his hand against the power button with a sigh and the screen goes dark, taking the light and music with it.

And Castiel realizes that what he is feeling must be hope.

**11\. Hallelujah – Imogen Heap**

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_  
 _And love is not a victory march_  
 _It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

Castiel stumbles as he lands and does not try to regain his footing, collapsing instead to kneel on the ground. He can feel the grass, thick and overgrown, ancient paving stones occasionally poking through. Their edges are rough and cool, cutting into his legs through his trousers.

There are the sounds of traffic on every side, even this late in the evening—the honking of a lorry, the squeal of rubber on blacktop—but the air around Castiel is undisturbed within these four ruined walls open to the sky. The church’s elaborate stone window frames remain, but the glass is gone, with no barrier between the interior of this ancient church and the bustling and brightly lit modern world beyond, on just the other side of the roundabout which surrounds it.

_You son of a bitch. I believed in—_

Castiel doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just sits on the damp ground, in darkness. There is nowhere for him to go, nothing left to search for.

The sound of traffic begins to diminish, a honking horn becoming more rare, even the sound of tires grinding across the asphalt slowly disappearing from the night’s noises. And at long last, there is silence, without even a group of chattering teenagers walking past to disturb the night air.

Castiel still has not moved.

 _I believed in_ —in what? A God who wouldn’t leave his creation to burn in the fires of Heaven and Hell? A Lord who was more than just a whispered hope or the word on a page? A Father who cared at all for his sons?

All of them. None. He doesn’t know, doesn’t _need_ to know anymore, why should it matter when God has abandoned him without a word of explanation?

The hollowed church stands above him in the silent night, no longer of any use now that it is shattered and broken.

And Castiel realizes that he—that his vessel—

Castiel is weeping.

**12\. The Three Of Us Remix #71: Requiem – The Summer Darlings**

_Don’t know why I love you but I do_  
 _It does me no good at all_  
 _In fact it does me bad, so bad_  
 _I am losing, I am losing_

The park is small, more a forgotten space just off the suburban road beside it, but there is a stream running through its center with a park bench alongside and this is where Castiel sits. The air is still chilly this early in spring, and he is alone aside from the occasional passing jogger. The birds are singing in the crisp morning air and the leaves are coming out on the trees, springing forth from branches that winter stripped bare.

A silver fish leaps from the water, a brief splash and shimmer in the dawn light before it falls back again. Up above, a crow flies from one tree to another, its black feathers dark against the brightening sky.

_And God said, Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky._

_And God saw that it was good._

It _was_ good, and it _is_ good, the creation of God laid out before him, and Castiel still cannot understand why his Father would leave it to destruction at his brothers’ hands.

A wren lands on a nearby bush and twitters loudly. Castiel wonders if he has stolen its preferred perch and watches as it fluffs its feathers, each one a tiny masterpiece of design. Even his own vessel, so riddled with imperfections—fingers that easily feel cold and become clumsy, eyes that do not see in extremes of shadow or light—is its own work of art, Castiel must admit.

And God has abandoned him along with the bird in the bush, left him to die with all the creatures of earth, water and air. Castiel knows this with a heavy certainty now, finally accepting what he has suspected for months. God may not be dead, but he is something much worse.

_Indifferent._

The wren chirps accusingly once more, fluttering its wings in agitation. Castiel sighs and gives one last glance to the stream, the trees, the sky—and then disappears.

**13\. The Predatory Wasp Of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us! – Sufjan Stevens**

_Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged_  
 _I can tell you I love him each day_

Castiel is drunk, and very disoriented. He knows that it is night and he can hear the crash and roar of waves, very close. He tries to remember where he was trying to go and if this was it, but his brain seems much more interested in having him look up at the stars, except there aren’t any stars, just a dark expanse of cloud, but maybe if he could just lean back a little farther he could—and Castiel falls flat on his back, staring up at the blank heavens which are, to all appearances, completely oblivious to his inquiring gaze.

He hears a shout of laughter and turns his head in the sand to see a bright orange light shining through the darkness—a bonfire farther down the beach, tended by a group of teenagers huddled around its crackling flames. Castiel can hear their voices if he tries, but can’t make out the words without concentrating, and concentrating right now is much too hard.

So Castiel watches the distant flames dancing and listens to the sound of the waves instead. Their inconstant rhythm is strangely comforting, just one more of God’s imperfectly perfect creations in a world that seems determined to remind Castiel of God’s power no matter how he tries to barricade himself from it. He’d thought the alcohol would help, but while it blocks out the details, what he does notice is strangely—intensified. The orange bonfire strikes him as one of the most beautiful sights he has ever seen, while the push and pull of the ocean’s tide seems more like an elaborate song of God’s own design.

The cell phone vibrates against Castiel’s leg. He eventually manages to pull it out and, after a few tries, flip it open. Four missed calls, one message. Sam.

Turning his face from the bonfire’s light, Castiel calls his voicemail and groans as Sam’s voice begins playing back, far too loud and curiously metallic in sound, into his ear.

**14\. All These Things That I’ve Done – The Killers**

_I want to shine on in the hearts of men_  
 _I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand_

Dean doesn’t answer, not really, when Castiel asks him the question that has been plaguing him ever since the brothers’ trip through Heaven, although Castiel thinks perhaps the truth would be that he has been searching for this answer for months, even years.

_How do you manage it?_

But even though Castiel knows it is the right question, he wonders what he is really asking. How to manage being abandoned by a father who no longer cares whether you live or die? How to manage being immersed in pain and cold and misery? How to manage being cast out from everyone you once knew, constrained to a world in which nothing makes sense? How to manage being so utterly powerless in the face of the black crushing weight of an impassive universe?

Castiel tries to think around the headache, staring at the wet blacktop as Sam and Dean prepare their weapons inside. He can feel the shape of the question he has been trying to answer for so long, but the words don’t seem to be there, not in any language and Castiel knows them all.

_How do you manage it?_

Dean hadn’t given him an answer, but how could he have? How could Dean have answered a question when even Castiel didn’t know what it was asking?

_How do you manage being... being—_

And Castiel has it, it comes with a sudden wave of pain, as if his head is about to split in two, but he finally has it, the question, and as soon as he finds it he knows the answer, the only answer there can be.

He hears Dean give a short laugh inside, followed by the sound of metal on metal.

_How do you manage it? Being human?_

And Castiel presses his palms against his forehead as another spasm of pain wracks his skull.

_You suffer._

**15\. War – Emmy The Great**

_And they said that the thought of you would fade_  
 _Well, I see nothing change_  
…  
 _I say, why did I wake?_  
 _Here in the world there is nothing more than your absence_

Dean is lying unconscious at the base of the fence, his blood on Castiel’s hands. Castiel is exhausted, with a dull ache in his bones and a soreness in his muscles. The physical toll taken by his usual means of transport has been increasing ever since he left Heaven, but there is more than just a sense of weariness that accompanies his arrival now. Only his rage is keeping him standing here—the same rage that gave him the strength to beat Dean Winchester into the ground.

But it is more than rage, Castiel knows. If Dean says yes, then Castiel will have fallen for nothing. If Dean says yes, Castiel will have finally lost everything, and somehow he does not think he can survive that.

The fence is still shaking from the impact of Dean’s body, the jangling of metal insisting that Castiel remember the force with which he threw him, the pain Dean must have felt.

But Dean deserved it—deserved it for leaving Castiel to his new humanity now that Dean can no longer face his. Castiel flexes his fingers, the blood already drying on them, black under the fluorescent streetlight.

The host of heaven will arrive soon, answering Dean’s plea for respite, and they need to leave. Castiel stretches out a hand and pulls Dean Winchester’s unconscious body up, supporting it with his own. Then, after a moment of dread, he reaches for Bobby’s living room, letting the whirl of time and space pull him into its tortuous spin.

**16\. A Girl A Boy And A Graveyard – Jeremy Messersmith**

_So underneath the concrete sky_  
 _Lucy puts her hand in mine_  
 _She says, Life’s a game we’re meant to lose_  
 _But stick by me and I will stick by you_

There are lights of cities, far away, across the black expanse underneath the starry sky, outside the window of the bus flying down a lonely highway. Castiel leans his still-aching head against the glass and it is cold and surprisingly soothing.

Delacroix is far behind him now, but Davenport is still many miles to go. He sees another passenger listening to some sort of audio device, while a man two seats down holds a flashlight and a cheap paperback in his hands. Castiel has nothing with which to pass the time, so he turns his eyes back to the dark landscape outside, past the reach of the headlights.

The last dose of pain medication has begun to wear off and the relentless burning ache of his muscles has returned, somehow much more present than when he still retained any semblance of angelic power. Yet for some reason it doesn’t fill him with the sense of despair he would expect, this one further reminder of everything he’s lost.

For the first time, Castiel has gained something in return. The knowledge that Dean said no to Michael fills him with a feeling he hasn’t felt since that tiny motel room with its duct-taped TV singing praises to the Lord no one wanted to hear. God may have left them, and the new plan Dean mentioned probably has as much a chance of succeeding as Castiel has of someday returning to Heaven, but for the moment it all feels like so much detail, insignificant in the grander scheme of things. The golden lights of a house up on a hillside shine in the distance, and Castiel thinks it looks like somewhere much warmer and more comfortable than a cramped bus seat.

He wonders what changed Dean’s mind, in the end. He will have to ask when he reaches Davenport. Maybe this time he’ll get an answer, though somehow he doubts it.

Castiel winces as a pothole under the bus’s wheel sends his head banging painfully against the window. The sudden jolt pulls him from his reverie and he sighs, wondering how much longer it will be to Davenport and wishing he’d bought a sandwich at the bus station. For now, he closes his eyes and reminds himself that Dean did not say yes and that there is still hope left in this broken world.

**17\. Stable Song – Death Cab For Cutie**

_Suffered a swift defeat_  
 _I’ll endure countless repeats_

Castiel sits on the floor in the back of Bobby’s van, examining the gun Dean handed to him out of the back of the Impala, accompanied by some comment about how it was “good for beginners.” Surely there is nothing particularly complicated in a firing a mechanical device? It doesn’t appear much simpler to use than any other gun in the Winchesters’ possession, at any rate.

The rain has started up again, pinging off the metal roof above him. Sam and Bobby up front are silent, and have been ever since hearing Castiel’s new information regarding Lucifer and what saying yes to him would mean. The van isn’t completely quiet, though; Bobby turned on the radio a couple miles back and tinny strains of music are now coming from the van’s ancient speakers.

There are no windows in the back, so Castiel stares at the opposite wall and listens to the rain mingle with the quiet strumming of a guitar.

What he told Sam was true—all of it, including the part about the brothers’ decided tendency to exceed his expectations. Of course, what he hadn’t mentioned was his actual expectation of Sam’s chances at resisting Lucifer, which is something close to no chance at all. Such an act, while theoretically possible, is hard to imagine with even the strongest of resisters, let alone Sam Winchester, whose track record of late with battles of will is not exactly to be admired.

But the feeling of hope still lingers, even after traveling over a thousand miles from Delacroix, and right now it is all he has and Castiel would rather put his faith in Sam Winchester than lose it again.

**18\. Planet – Kyte**

_Stop with the worst as you wait for the shallow_  
 _And chase after castles like there's no tomorrow_  
 _Sometimes dust flies up_

The afternoon sun is warm on Castiel’s face as he stands on Bobby’s back porch and looks out at the green fields of unkempt grass and weeds, growing like crazy in the full flush of spring. Bobby is inside, while he can hear Dean and Sam talking in the junkyard. He can guess what about, even if he can’t make out a word of it.

The sky harbors a host of white clouds, the sunlight currently warming his skin only a fleeting apparition but one greatly welcomed for the moment on an otherwise cold and drizzly day. For a moment Castiel imagines what it would be like if clouds were as soft to the touch as they looked, rather than just wet and intangible. It’s a foolish thought, but a good one, and Castiel lets it linger as he listens to the hum of insects and the chirping of a far-off bird.

Eventually, he knows, Dean will say yes to Sam’s plan, and soon they will be setting out to find the Devil and give him the golden key to the apocalypse. With that in mind, Castiel feels curiously grateful that what is possibly his last day on Earth saw fit to provide one last glimpse of sunlight.

Making his way down the porch’s creaking steps, Castiel walks out into the field, pushing his way through the tall grass that opens before and closes after him, the rain from earlier brushing off onto his coat and trousers. The gentle breeze makes the grass bend and sway, and Castiel continues walking until he is far enough from the house that he can no longer hear Dean and Sam discussing the terms on which Sam will sacrifice himself to save the earth from destruction, listening instead only to the rustle of the world all around him.

And now he prays.

Prayer is not something that angels do, the act being rather pointless from their point of view, something to be left to humans who have no real means of saving their own selves. But now, as human as any angel has ever been, Castiel feels he is somewhat entitled.

He does not clasp his hands or kneel, but simply stands, eyes closed to the sunlight.

There is no reply.

But Castiel knows—in the fathomless reaches of God’s silence, in the deepest thralls of doubt—that he has faith.

**19\. From Stardust To Sentience – High Places**

_Out in the desert your thoughts are as clear as the stars_  
 _You feel golden_  
 _You're billion year old carbon_

Castiel opens his eyes. The desert stretches out before him, gray and black under the night sky. The immensity, the emptiness fills him and he lets it in without a fight. He has walked through greater deserts, so vast as to seem limitless, reaching far beyond the line of the horizon, farther than a man could walk in a lifetime, farther than an angel could fly over the course of eternity. This desert, this place of sand and space, holds no fears for him.

The night air is freezing, but Castiel doesn’t feel it, removes it from his vessel unthinkingly as he begins to walk along the ridge of a dune.

Heaven is waiting for him, and soon he will have to answer its call, but for now he walks where there is no path, out toward a destination that does not exist. The stars shine brightly overhead, slowly wheeling across the sky, up above the solitary angel who lingers for one more night on the earth where he has journeyed these past months.

Castiel walks for hours across the sand, filled with the empty isolation of deserts, and does not tire. There is silence on every side, for miles. Even the wind is quiet, with not even a breeze to disturb the carefully sculpted dunes.

As the sky begins to lighten, Castiel blinks once into the glare of the rising sun just slipping over the edge of the world, and then disappears, leaving behind only footprints that begin nowhere and end nowhere as well, deep in a desert of shifting sands.


End file.
